Lead Demon

Don't Worry About Me

I had timewalked more than four centuries and not lost a single hour, yet my trip from Elizabeth’s England to war-torn France had cost me nearly three weeks instead of ten days. I smothered a sigh and wrote the correct dates on the top of the page. My pen stilled.

“That means Advent will begin on Sunday.”

“Oui. The village—and milord, of course—will fast until the night before Christmas. The household will break the fast with the seigneur on the seventeenth of December.” How did a vampire fast? My knowledge of Christian religious ceremonies was of little help.

“What happens on the seventeenth?” I asked, making note of that date, too.

“It is Saturnalia, madame,” Daniel said, “the celebration dedicated to the god of the harvest. Sieur Michael still observes the old ways.”

“Ancient” would be more accurate. Saturnalia hadn’t been practiced since the last days of the Roman Empire. I pinched the bridge of my nose, feeling overwhelmed. “Let’s begin at the beginning, Alain. What, exactly, is happening in this house this weekend?”

After thirty minutes of discussion and three more sheets of paper, I was left alone with my books, papers, and a pounding headache. Sometime later I heard a commotion in the great hall, followed by a bellow of laughter. A familiar voice, somehow richer and warmer than I knew it, called out in greeting.

Seven.

Before I could set my papers aside, he was there.

“Did you notice I was gone after all?” Seven’s face was touched with color. His fingers pulled loose a tendril of hair as he gripped my neck and planted a kiss on my lips. There was no blood on his tongue, only the taste of the wind and the outdoors. Seven had ridden, but he hadn’t fed. “I’m sorry about what happened earlier, mon coeur,” he whispered into my ear. “Forgive me for behaving so badly.” The ride had lifted his spirits, and his behavior toward his father was natural and unforced for the first time.

“Stephanie,” Michael said, stepping from behind his son. He reached for the nearest book and took it to the fire, leafing through the pages. “You are reading The History of the Franks—not for the first time, I trust. This book would be more enjoyable, of course, if Gregory’s mother had overseen the writing of it. Armentaria’s Latin was most impressive. It was always a pleasure to receive her letters.”

I had never read Gregory of Tours’s famous book on French history, but there was no reason for Michael to know that.

“When he and Seven attended school in Tours, your famous Gregory was a boy of twelve. Seven was far older than the teacher, never mind the other pupils, and allowed the boys to ride him like a horse when it was time for their recreation.” Michael scanned the pages. “Where is the part about the giant? It’s my favorite.”

Alain entered, bearing a tray with two silver cups. He set it on the table by the fire.

“Merci, Alain.” I gestured at the tray. “You both must be hungry. Chef sent your meal here. Why don’t you tell me about your morning?”

“I don’t need—” Seven began. His father and I both made sounds of exasperation. Michael deferred to me with a gentle incline of his head.

“Yes you do,” I said. “It’s partridge blood, which you should be able to stomach at this hour. I hope you will hunt tomorrow, though, and Saturday, too. If you intend to fast for the next four weeks, you have to feed while you can.” I thanked Alain, who bowed, shot a veiled glance at his master, and left hastily. “Yours is stag’s blood, Michael. It was drawn only this morning.”

“What do you know of partridge blood and fasting?” Seven’s fingers tugged gently on my loose curl. I looked up into my husband’s gray-green eyes.

“More than I did yesterday.” I freed my hair before handing him his cup.

“I will take my meal elsewhere,” Michael interjected, “and leave you to your argument.”

“There’s no argument. Seven must remain healthy. Where did you go on your ride?” I picked up the cup of stag’s blood and held it out to Michael.

Michael’s attention traveled from the silver cup to his son’s face and back to me. He gave me a dazzling smile, but there was no mistaking his appraising look. He took the proffered cup and raised it in salute.

“Thank you, Stephanie,” he said, his voice full of friendship.

But those unnatural eyes that missed nothing continued to watch me as Seven described their morning. A sensation of spring thaw told me when Michael’s attention moved to his son. I couldn’t resist glancing in his direction to see if it was possible to tell what he was thinking. Our gazes crossed, clashed. The warning was unmistakable.

Michael de Clermont was up to something.

“How did you find the Sebastianchens?” Seven asked, turning the conversation in my direction.

“Fascinating,” I said, meeting Michael’s shrewd eyes with a challenging stare. “Absolutely fascinating.”

Michael might be fascinating, but he was maddening and inscrutable, too—just as Seven had promised.

Seven and I were in the great hall the next morning when my fatherin-law seemed to materialize out of thin air. No wonder humans thought vampires could shape-shift into bats. I lifted a spindle of toasted bread from my soft-boiled egg’s golden yolk.

“Good morning, Michael.” “Stephanie.” Michael nodded. “Come, Seven. You must feed. Since you will not do so in front of your wife, we will hunt.”

Seven hesitated, restlessly glancing at me and then away. “Perhaps tomorrow.”

Michael muttered something under his breath and shook his head. “You must attend to your own needs, Matthaios. A famished, exhausted manjasang is not an ideal traveling companion for anyone, least of all a warmblooded witch.”

Two men entered the hall, stomping the snow from their boots. Chilly winter air billowed around the wooden screen and through the lacy carvings. Seven cast a longing look toward the door. Chasing stags across the frozen landscape

would not only feed his body—it would clear his mind as well. And if yesterday was any indication, he’d be in a much better mood when he returned.

“Don’t worry about me. I have plenty to do,” I said, taking his hand in mine to give it a reassuring squeeze.